Long Summers and No Clues
by spintwin
Summary: RonOliver slash: Oliver Wood isn't what Ron Weasley expects.


  
harry potter : long summers and no clues   


Summers at the Burrow were long and hot, and involved innumerous shirtless games of Quidditch, where the main focus wasn't scoring goals - but rather flying low enough that Ron's mother didn't have reasonable ground to pitch a fit about the neighbouring Muggles. 

Ron played Keeper in these games - unless Oliver Wood, captain and Keeper of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, came around to visit with the twins. Ron wasn't _jealous_ of Wood, as such, but he definitely envied the easy grace with which Wood sat atop a broom, his ease at stopping most goals the makeshift Weasley Chasers attempted. Basically, Wood was a Keeper, and a ruddy good one, and Ron wished he could say the same about himself. 

Sometimes, the best thing about these games was when they finished, and came down - all bright red from too much sun, and Ron's mother came out with charmed cold lemonade for them. They'd lie there, panting and sweating, and only talk about Quidditch - which was exactly what they all wanted. 

At dinner, those times when Oliver was visiting, Ron would watch as Oliver attempted to get Percy involved in a conversation about Transylvania's chances at the next World Cup, or about the newest way the Pincer was being performed. Percy turned down every angle of Quidditch conversation, every time, but Wood persisted. 

"George," Ron said, nudging his brother in the ribs. "Does Wood every talk about anything _but_ Quidditch?" 

"Dunno," George replied, chewing his dinner and looking at the roof thoughtfully. 

Across the table, Fred grinned at them. "We've only known him four years." 

It seemed that Wood, in fact, had only one topic of conversation, and that was his sport. Not that Ron minded, as such - Quidditch was great, after all, and he, too, could talk about the Cannons for days on end. He was just surprised that someone else was the same way. 

The first time Ron, reddening very quickly, took Oliver up to see his room, he'd introduced it in a sort of embarrassed way. "See, I know they're not great, but the Cannons, you know, they'll be coming back, and–" 

"Brilliant room, Ron," Oliver cut him off, looking around with an open mouth. "Have you read about the game in 1951, where Chudley played Wimbourne, and–" 

"–and the Chudley Seeker successfully performed the Wronski Feint, and the Wimbourne Seeker was out cold for three days, _yeah_ I've heard about it!" Ron grinned and sat down on his bed, starting to talk about all the great games the Cannons had ever played. That, of course, didn't take long, and they were soon back onto discussing the way the League was played at the moment. 

Oliver, he told Ron, was going to play for Montrose when he left school - Montrose or Puddlemere United, with a backup plan of Pride of Portree if all went wrong. He wasn't too keen on the Prides, he said, and Ron nodded enthusiastically, because Meaghan McCormack was their Keeper, and with who her mother had been, she was generally thought of as a mainstay in the side. 

"I'm going to play for the Cannons, I reckon," said Ron, who changed his planned career path at least three times a week. "I'm a Keeper, too, really." 

Wood's face lit up. "Are you, really? That's wicked, Ron, you play Keeper tomorrow, so I can see what you do." 

The next day, when the air was still and utterly humid, Ron, and Oliver, and the twins and Ginny (Oliver and Ginny would play Chaser together, even though it was hardly fair with just two) played, and each time Ron made a save, Oliver would grin at him. Ron couldn't believe what it felt like to really impress Wood - _really_ impress him, even though his saves were few and not really all that skilled. 

Afterwards, the twins and Ginny went inside to "hunt for some food", and Ron dropped to his stomach beside Oliver. 

"You're going to be a ruddy great Keeper, Ron," Oliver said enthusiastically, grinning. "I reckon you could be Gryffindor's when I leave, you just need to work on the way you over-commit to the center hoop, and the way you guess that the Chaser's going for the obvious option, and–" Oliver went on, listing all the faults with Ron's game, and Ron became gradually more crestfallen. "– and just work on the way you position your left foot when you're stretching to make a save up and to your right, but other than that, you're going to be fantastic!" 

Ron was silent for a moment. 

"Er, thanks, Oliver," he muttered, wishing the grass would open up and swallow him. 

As Oliver started going on about how he'd seen the Kenmare Kestrels' Keeper, Barry Ryan practising just the other day, Ron started wondering what exactly was taking the twins and Ginny so long. Wood mentioned that Ryan had been working on a variation of the figure-eight loop that looked really effective, and if Ron wanted him to, Wood could try and teach him exactly how it was supposed to go. Ron nodded, but wasn't listening to a word Wood was saying. 

"You could just ask the twins and Ginny to practice with you any time, or else, I'm usually free, you could send me an owl, but if you're really serious about playing professionally one day, even if it's just for the Cannons, you should start practicing full-time, now." Oliver nodded, and Ron looked at him as if he'd gone mad. 

He remembered the twins saying something once about how if you needed a nap, you'd just have to get Wood talking about Quidditch, and he'd bore you to sleep within half an hour - and what was better, he'd never even notice. Apparently Fred had once fallen asleep at a Quidditch meeting, and started to snore, and Wood had just raised his voice above it without even noticing. As Wood went on about some of Ryan's more famous saves, especially in the domestic games against the Ballycastle Bats, Ron started to understand exactly how you could fall asleep. He was fairly certain that even if he danced naked in front of Wood right now, Wood would still be giving an enthusiastically detailed description of the second game of the England Quidditch team's 1921-22 season. 

He looked over at Wood again, and the way he was talking - animated, making dramatic hand gestures, as if he was reliving everything he was describing. The way he had a faint sheen of sweat covering his face, and the way he brought a hand up in the middle of describing the apparently famous one-two-back-three-four-forward-five-six-double-back passing sequence the Keeper for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers had begun in the final of last year's French domestic season, to brush his sweat-laced fringe off his forehead. 

Ron blinked. 

He'd caught Ginny once, the year before, signing her name 'Ginny Wood' in tiny letters in the back of her Transfiguration textbook, and was torn between immense relief that she wasn't writing 'Ginny Potter', and anger that she was signing _anyone_'s name like that. He'd ended up scowling and going off to find Malfoy to punch, which he thought was a pretty good compromise. But now, looking at Wood rant - now, from the snippets that Ron was actually listening to, about the way the bigger of the Bulgarian Beaters had a personal vendetta against the Australian national Keeper, and was known for attacking him viciously - Ron could almost see exactly why Ginny was writing her name like that, because there wasn't exactly a way to deny how strangely good looking Wood really was, in his own way. 

"... and then, the national referee for Ireland gave that bloke an official warning," Wood said, frowning in agreement with the referee in question, and without really thinking about it - because if he thought about it, he'd have to wonder if it really made any sense, Ron leaned over and kissed Wood. 

He went absolutely still when Ron pressed his mouth against his, and when Ron chanced a look (he'd heard the twins talking one night, and saying that it was rude to open your eyes when you were kissing, but what did the twins know?), Wood was looking at him in shock, so Ron closed his eyes again. Wood tasted of sweat and broom polish, exactly how he smelled, and the sweetness of the grass they were lying in. Ron eventually broke the kiss off, and looked at Oliver nervously. 

Oliver blinked at him. "Er. Right. Um. Where was I, then? Oh, right, the Irish ref, well, there was a huge uproar over whether he actually had the right to give him an official warn–" 

"I just kissed you," Ron cut him off, still in slight disbelief that he'd done it. He raised his hand to his own mouth, felt how wet it was, and wiped it hurriedly. 

"Er, yeah, I know, look, do you want me to finish this story?" Oliver didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, at the next meeting of the International Quidditch Association, or IQA as most people call them, they discussed what they should..." 

Ron scowled in frustration, going very red. "No, Wood, I just _kissed_ you. Aren't you going to..." 

"Stop interrupting me. They discussed whether they'd have to give the _ref_ an official warning, and that was definitely something there wasn't, at the time, a precedent for at all." 

"Was I no good, or something?" 

Oliver frowned at him. "And anyway, eventually they decided that there was no need to give him an official warning, because he was doing the right thing, and so they then amended the rules. It turns out that it's a lot safer for players, especially Keepers, because Keepers are almost as targeted as Seekers by their opponents." 

"I've never bloody kissed someone before, I don't know!" Ron scowled at him. "Just say something!" 

"Look, you should listen to this, it's important. Especially if you want to be a professional player one day, it represented an important change in the rules." 

Ron stared at him in disbelief, then scowled, and got up, glaring at Oliver before he stalked off toward the house. Oliver yelled after him, 'If you want, I can find some articles about it for you to borrow!' and Ron just scowled even more darkly, slamming the door to the Burrow when he walked inside. 

George, in the kitchen, paused with his bread to his mouth, a wicked grin on his face. "Something wrong, Ronniekins?" 

"You shut it," Ron snapped, starting up the stairs and stomping as hard as he could, turning around to shoot Fred the darkest glare he could manage as Fred started making kissing noises behind his back. "And you, just–" 

"Our ickle Ron's growing up, George," Fred said in a sickeningly sweet voice. "His first kiss, and it was to someone who wouldn't know what a kiss was if it hit him in the face." 

"Don't tell Wood that," George replied, grinning, "he'll think it's a Bludger." 

"I hope you both choke and die," Ron informed them calmly, before turning to continue up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he looked out the window, just once, to see that Wood had mounted his broomstick again and was back over to their makeshift goals, practising the modified figure-eight he'd been talking about earlier. Ron scowled, and slammed his bright orange curtains shut. 

He'd heard Percy complain, once, that the only thing his room-mate ever noticed was a 'ridiculously trivial sport', and Ron couldn't believe that anyone could ever like, or talk about, or notice Quidditch too much. 

For possibly the first time in his life, however, at that moment, he found himself agreeing with the git. 

He scowled, and got up again, to go to the bathroom and wash his mouth out with soap. 

  
  


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